


Somebody To You

by harrietelizabeth



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:20:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrietelizabeth/pseuds/harrietelizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam is mad about Zayn and *that* video (i know that's from like centuries ago) and he decides to go do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody To You

Liam is going to fucking kill him.

 

He’s heard that an icicle is the ultimate murder weapon because it melts away after you’re done, but it’s the middle of bloody summer in Europe, and Liam isn’t going to wait another six months to happen across a sharp enough icicle in the middle of Canada or wherever they end up in order to plunge it through Zayn’s chest. He thinks poison is probably the best way, but that’s slow, too slow, and all Zayn ever eats anyway is packets of crisps and the occasional McDonalds burger, and Liam doesn’t think he has the skill set to sneak arsenic into packaged food.

He wishes his last name was Neeson instead of Payne.

He thinks momentarily about asking Louis to do it for him, but that would involve talking to Louis, and Liam wants to kill Louis more than he wants to kill Zayn right now, so he immediately strikes that option off the list.

He’s been so focused on his plans for bandmate homicide that he hardly realises he’s been walking, well, more like half-walking half-marching, towards Zayn’s room until he sees the number on the door, 270. He realises, too, that he’s out of breath, which has a lot to do with how angry he feels and how tight his chest is squeezed in anger and disappointment and confusion and all the other things that Zayn’s never made him feel before, and less to do with his level of fitness, which is well above average, thank you very much.

Regardless, he gives himself time to catch his breath before he barges into Zayn’s room unannounced, which is what he was planning on doing on his way over here. At least he thinks he was. Now he’s not so sure, as he imagines Zayn in his room, probably curled over a sketchbook or splayed out on the bed with his headphones in, turned up full volume, trying to block out the world that he knows is coming for him. He must know, Liam thinks, he must know that he fucked up and that the world wants answers.

Liam wants answers.

He leans his forehead against the door, trying to listen for a sign of life in there, but all he can hear is the low hum of the air conditioning in the hallway, pressing into his skin and his head on all sides, filling him up with this kind of buzzing energy that sparks out through his pores.

He is going to fucking kill him.

He taps in the security code that Zayn had texted him on their first night in the hotel – at least that was one thing he was still open with Liam about – and pushes on the door, letting it swing open before he steps inside. His chest is thumping loudly, with adrenalin or anger or fear of what he’s going to find out, he can’t tell which.

His eyes flick around the room, over the unpacked bag in the corner leaking old crumpled tee shirts out the side, the open latptop on the desk, the one they used to watch stupid movies on when neither of them could sleep because they didn’t know what fucking time zone they were in, and finally, Zayn, curled up on the bed with his back to Liam, fingers twisted in the lifeless duvet cover, hair a shock of black atop his pale, thin neck. Liam can just see the feathers of his fantail tattoo where the neck of his tee shirt dips down at the back. Liam’s anger softens for an eightieth of a second, and then - “Fuck off,” Zayn mumbles as the door swings shut behind Liam, and his fists curl.Nope, Zayn is not the one who gets to be angry right now.

“What the fuck man?” Liam says, taking a step towards the bed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans so he has something to do with them, cos right now he’s picturing them wrapped around Zayn’s neck.

“Seriously, fuck off Liam.”

It takes Liam a moment to decide which combination of expletives best suits his response to that, but he eventually settles for “Not a fucking chance, Zayn.”

Finally, Zayn rolls towards him, his eyes hard and flat looking, not their usual bright, deep selves. Liam feels a small tremor in the floor as their eyes meet, and he wonders if the place they’re in is prone to earthquakes, or if it’s just within this room.

He thinks he knows the answer.

“What do you want?” Zayn snaps, and Liam raises an eyebrow. He may not be able to wink, but he perfected this move years ago.

“Oh, you know, just thought I’d pop by to see if you wanted anything. Dinner. Some spliff. A fucking easy way out from this band you suddenly can’t seem to stand.”

“Liam –“

“Come on Zayn, you knew this was coming. Why didn’t you fucking say something to me? If you’re not happy with how shit gets done around here then why not say so? I would’ve gone to management with you, we could’ve talked this shit out rather than – rather than having to find out like this.”

“Yeah, like talking to management ever fucking achieves anything.” Zayn rolls his eyes, and that’s the Zayn Liam can’t stand. The one who acts like he doesn’t care, like he would rather be anywhere else in the world than on the biggest tour of their careers so far with his five best mates, the one who acts like this is all a joke, when Liam knows it’s so much more to him than that.

That’s the Zayn Liam wants to kill.

“Why are you being like this?” Liam asks, his anger mounting as he remembers the Zayn he knew not long ago, the little boy from Bradford who couldn’t believe how far he’d come. He remembers playing Started From the Bottom at 1am on their tour bus because they were so overwhelmed with being on their third world tour, playing to sold-out stadiums in a billion different fucking countries.

But something’s changed, Liam can tell – he may not be the sharpest tool in the shed but he’s not blind – and Zayn just isn’t all there anymore. It’s like half his energy is somewhere else onstage, and Liam knows, he knows how hard it can be getting up there night after night when you think you’ve got nothing left to give, and still putting on a show. But he does it because he loves it, and he loves his boys, and he thought that was why Zayn was here, too.

But now Zayn avoids his eyes when Liam sings their favourite lines to each other, slopes back to his room after every show rather than coming to celebrate with him, Niall and Harry, doesn’t bother to check where they’re going to be next or how many different countries they’ve been through already. He’s floating, drifting, barely taking it in, and Liam wants to haul him back down to earth, shake him back to life and make him realise how amazing all this stuff is, how real it is.

“Why?” Zayn repeats slowly, as if Liam’s asked him the square root of 847. “Why am I being like this? Why am I fucking over being told what to do with my life, told how to feel, how to look, who to be?” Zayn gets to his feet, and yeah, ok, Liam gets that.

They all do, Christ, that’s the whole reason they’re so close is that they know how this feels, to live this double life, one under the strobe lights and equipment and the millions and millions of camera flashes, and another like this, in a quiet, anonymous hotel room, trying to see through some detached, cynical exterior to the best friend Liam knows is still there.

At least, he hopes he is.

“It never used to bother you,” says Liam, and he’s trying not to escalate the situation further, because Zayn’s shoulders are razor-sharp with tension, his eyes starting to burn again, his lips set.

“It’s always fucking bothered me!” Zayn explodes, and Liam can feel the anger radiating off him. He feeds off it, clenching his fists in his pockets. “I just always pretended like it didn’t because it wasn’t a big deal to you guys, so I figured it shouldn’t be to me. But I’m over it, Liam, I’m fucking done, I can’t do this anymore.”

Liam’s chest is cold, cold like he’s been submerged in his post-workout ice bath for three days and he can’t move.

He knows what Zayn is saying, knows exactly what those words mean, can see their shape and feel them cut against his skin. But he just wants to block them out, and without thinking he reaches out and grabs Zayn’s shoulders, giving him a little shake.

“Don’t fucking say that,” he says, his voice low, and Zayn’s eyes lock with his, finally showing some of their old depth.

“Why not? You guys don’t need me, I’m shit onstage, I’m shit in interviews, I’m shit in leaked fucking videos of me being an ass, I –“ Liam shakes him again, harder this time.

“Zayn, stop it.”

“It doesn’t matter, Liam. None of it matters, forget it.”

“But why?” Liam’s mind keeps repeating the same question over and over again, louder and louder, until it escapes his mouth.

“Why?” Zayn repeats again, angry and bitten this time, like a sting on Liam’s cheek in a boxing spar. “You want to know why?”

“Yes, Zayn, for fuck’s sake!” Zayn grabs Liam’s wrists and shoves them off his shoulders, pushing Liam away.

“You, that’s fucking why.”

 

It’s like Zayn’s just pushed him into a swimming pool and he’s falling in slow motion, everything gone silent and water pressing in on him from both sides. Liam is trying to pull air into his lungs but they’re squeezing tighter and tighter with every second that he looks at Zayn with his deep, wistful eyes, so bright and sharp that Liam feels like lasers are going to shoot out of them at any second like the Marvel comics they still like to read together sometimes. Or still did.

“M- me?” Liam manages, his voice a hoarse croak in the air of the hotel room which feels thicker than air, thicker than water.

“Yeah, you,” Zayn mutters, his eyes dragging away from Liam’s towards the carpet. “It’s always because of you, Liam.”

Liam doesn’t understand. He feels like he should, feels like this should be one of those lightbulb moments where everything suddenly makes sense and he’s no longer standing in the dark, but actually, he just feels even more confused.

How does this have anything to do with him? How is what always because of him?

“I don’t –“

“Look, I know you do this because you love it, you love performing and you’re a natural, and you’ve always wanted to do this, like, you know this is what you want, and that’s cool, mate, it really is, but it was never really like that for me. It was never about making it big.”

Liam really feels like he’s missing something now, like that time he thought Harry, Niall and Louis were talking about basketball when they were really talking about rimjobs, except a whole lot more important. He swallows, feeling his tongue grate against the dryness of his mouth. He doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answer, but the question escapes him anyway.

“What was it about then?”

Zayn glares at him like he’s an idiot, and he’s used to that feeling, sort of, like he should know something he really doesn’t, but he’s not used to it from Zayn. He’s starting to feel angry again, because that’s easier than feeling stupid.

“I just fucking told you Liam, it’s about you! You, and your voice and your persona onstage, the way you are with the boys and the fans and just – this is so easy for you, and I wanted something to be easy for me for once. I never wanted to be this guy, touring the world, posing for photos, answering dumbass questions all day from interviewers and idiots on twitter, but when I met you, that’s the only way I could see that I would matter to you. If I pretended this was what I wanted. That’s all I was doing it for, Liam, the whole time, all this bullshit, being away from mum and the girls and my home, my friends, all the stupid fucking rumours and fucking SHIT, was so that I could be somebody to you.”

 

Liam thinks he might have passed out and is having hallucinations. He thinks he might have been hit by a bus somewhere between watching the video of Louis and Zayn in the back of a car and going to Zayn’s hotel room.

His body doesn’t feel present; he can’t really be standing in front of Zayn with his dark, fierce eyes, hearing him say that everything he’s done in the past four years has been for Liam? Hearing him say that it’s not worth it anymore? Because Liam knows how easy it is to feel forgotten with four other loud boys around you, boys with the confidence of supermodels and popstars and football legends who are really just idiots fumbling their way through an amazing coincidence and trying to deal with the consequences.

Most days Liam feels like he isn’t good enough to be around these boys either – Harry with his smile that can light up a thousand stadiums, Niall with his irresistible voice and jokes, Louis with his snarky humour and a marshmallow core buried deep, deep inside, and Zayn ….well.

Zayn with his eyes and his voice and his hair, his everything. Liam is definitely hallucinating, but then he feels Zayn’s fingers on the inside of his wrist, and suddenly it all feels too real.

“Zayn, you’ve always been somebody to me.”

Liam thinks of all the times he’s caught Zayn’s eye onstage and there’s been that electric pulse between them, the feeling that they know what the other is thinking and how the other feels. That’s how it’s always been with them, and if Liam had just known Zayn felt like this…

“You don’t get it,” Zayn says, shaking his head, his fingers brushing away from Liam’s hand.

“What? What don’t I get?” Liam says, torn between pleading and shouting, because Zayn is literally that frustrating right now he thinks he might still want to kill him.

“You don’t get what it’s like to feel like you don’t matter! You don’t get what it’s like to feel like all the work you’ve put in for the last four years has been for nothing, all that time’s been wasted because the person you’re doing it for doesn’t give a shit!”

Something snaps in Liam’s chest and he reaches out for Zayn’s wrist, grabbing it roughly and pulling him in so that their chests are millimetres away from touching.

“Say that again,” Liam says, his voice shaking with anger and frustration and, maybe, a tiny hint of hope. “Tell me I don’t give a shit.”

“You-“

Liam silences him with his mouth, pulling Zayn in to him by the scruff of his tee shirt, not caring that it’s sloppy and messy and he’s angry, his entire body is shaking with anger, because he gives more shits about Zayn than he’s ever given about anything in his life.

Which is what makes him want to kill him when he says stupid things like he did in that video, and just now, and what makes him worry when Zayn seems so quiet and reserved onstage.

It’s what makes him tell the crowd to give a special cheer for Zayn, so he knows how appreciated he is.

It’s what makes him reach out to Zayn in front of thousands of screaming people with bloody video cameras and give him a reassuring touch or hug just to let him know he gives a fucking shit.

And Zayn has the nerve to tell him he doesn’t.

It’s downright rude, is what it is, and Liam is so mad he pushes Zayn backwards towards the bed, their mouths still desperately locked together, Zayn’s breath hot in the back of his throat and his tongue nervously swiping at Liam’s lips. When Zayn falls backwards, Liam waits a second before going down to kiss him again.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he says, and his voice is thick and breathless and shaking but he means it, and he can see Zayn knows it.

Zayn looks as dazed as Liam feels, spread out on the bed like he’s lost control of his limbs, which is something Liam can see in his own not too distant future. Then Zayn reaches up and pulls Liam down next to him, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“I was going to kill you when I came in here, you know,” Liam tells him.

Zayn smiles, but it’s sad, and Liam reaches over to draw his thumb over Zayn’s jawline, thick with stubble. He likes the way it grazes over the soft pad of his finger, burning a little.

“Yeah, they’re still going to kill me though,” he says, and Liam knows exactly who he means. They won’t really, though, these things disappear pretty quickly, Liam knows that from his own scrapes with management.

But he doesn’t want to talk about that right now.

He came in here wanting to kill Zayn and part of that adrenalin is still pumping through him, except now it has a different charge, and it’s currently sitting below the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s new, sure, but it doesn’t mean Liam doesn’t like it.

“Not if I do it first,” he says, low against Zayn’s neck.

The groan he hears from the back of Zayn’s throat sends him spiralling through time and space to the brink of oblivion and when he returns, he’s a new person.

The old Liam would not be rolling on top of his best friend, grinding him down into the bed and feeling his breath hitch when Zayn pushes back against him, his hand gripping the back of Liam’s neck. But the new Liam knows exactly when to nip his teeth into Zayn’s bottom lip to bring that low-pitched moan out from the back of his throat again, and he’s desperate to get a hand on himself but they’re too close together, shirts riding up over their stomachs and Liam’s hard cock burning with every movement against Zayn’s jeans.

“Jesus Liam, remind me why we’ve never done this before,” Zayn gasps, his hand sliding down to the waistband of Liam’s sweats, and yes, is what Liam almost says, until he actually realises what Zayn’s asking.

“Because we’re both fucking idiots who thought the other didn’t give a shit,” he chokes out as Zayn slides a hand between them, grabbing hold of Liam and rubbing his thumb over the head of his dick.

“Oh yeah,” Zayn says, and Liam can’t tell who’s in control now, but he thinks it might not be him for much longer if Zayn keeps moving his hand like that. “Sorry about that.”

Liam feels the words, more than hears them, against the skin of his neck, Zayn’s breath and lips imprinting them on his skin, an invisible tattoo, and he buries his face in Zayn’s collarbone.

“Me too,” he manages, before Zayn jerks him one last time and he blacks out, for real this time, coming to seconds later still on top of Zayn, his come soaking both their tee shirts and Zayn looking up at him in awe.

“Shit,” he croaks, and Liam is about to feel embarrassed, awkward, deliriously humiliated, until Zayn bites his lip and creases his eyebrows.

“Liam?”

The feeling is coming back to Liam’s legs, and he scoots down the bed a bit, pulling Zayn’s stained tee shirt off him and staring at his chest, scattered with tattoos that Liam knows as well as his own, just never like this. He kisses a trail down Zayn’s torso, lingering over the lipstick mark and the gun on his hipbone, making Zayn shiver.

Sure, he’s thought about this before, on nights when he can’t sleep and they’ve had a particularly electric show, but he’s always put it down to tiredness or desperation, never really thought it would really happen. And he never really knew he wanted it to happen until Zayn was looking at him like that, like he’d let Liam down, and all Liam knows is that he needs to show Zayn how incredible he is.

So he drags his lips across Zayn’s hips, making him arch his back into the bed. He listens to all the noises Zayn makes as he swallows him down, so much in awe of everything – of Zayn’s desperation to please him, of his own realisation of how much he wants Zayn to know he’s proud of him, and then….this. The feeling of Zayn hitting the back of his throat, of Zayn’s fingers trying to find enough hair on Liam’s head to grab onto, of his own come sticking to his stomach, of the blinding white hot moment when Zayn wrenches Liam’s mouth off and comes with a strangled choke, Liam looking up at him completely dazed.

“Fuck,” Zayn says, his head dropping back onto the bed, and Liam crawls back up to lie next to him, heart pounding, suddenly shy.

He’s overcome with a sneaking feeling that he’s fucked everything up, more than Zayn and Louis smoking a joint and talking shit before a show, because Zayn’s his best friend.

“Was that….okay?” he asks softly, wishing he could stop asking questions because he’s terrified of the answers. Zayn rolls his head to the side to look at Liam, and he looks exactly how Liam feels – like he’s just been hit over the head with a twenty pound dumbbell.

“It was….fucking amazing,” Zayn breathes, and in that moment Liam wants everything to end because he doesn’t think anything will ever feel as good as hearing Zayn say that.

“I still kind of want to kill you,” Liam says, tentatively reaching out a finger to brush against the side of Zayn’s thumb, wondering if he’s allowed to touch him still. “You’re a fucking idiot for thinking you’re not good enough. And I actually refuse to believe you don’t really enjoy this.”

He means it; his chest tightens at the thought of Zayn putting up with the life they’re forced to live, of late nights and long flights and feeling like you’re someone you’re not, if he didn’t really enjoy it. Zayn shrugs defensively, and Liam instinctively laces his fingers through his, marvelling at the way Zayn fits perfectly in the empty spaces Liam’s never really noticed before.

“I do enjoy it, but it’s never been my dream, y’know. I just – I wanted to be someone, feel like I was important, and this seemed like a good way to do it. But I felt like it hadn’t worked because you had no idea you were the reason.”

Liam wants to knock him out, he sounds so ridiculous, and he runs through about six different ways he could do it in his head before he calms himself down.

“Once again, you’re an idiot, Zayn.” Zayn laughs next to him.

“Right back ‘atcha, mate.”

“And you’re thick for letting Louis film you getting high.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’re a dick for letting Niall convince me we were in Amsterdam when we were in Italy, too.”

Zayn snorts. “You’re an idiot for believing anything Niall says.”

“Touché.”

“We’re idiots for not having done this sooner,” Zayn says quietly, and Liam’s heart stumbles over its beats.

“What do you mean?” he asks, which is not what he wants to say at all.

“Nothing, shut up,” Zayn says, but Liam doesn’t miss the tiny twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m not crazy, I’ve just….wanted to do this forever.”

“Well I’m crazy.” Zayn turns his head to look at him, and Liam can’t help but let the grin that’s been hiding behind his nervousness break out suddenly. “Crazy about you.”

“We’re both crazy,” Zayn says.

“We’re both idiots,” Liam agrees.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Zayn does.


End file.
